Read Online Full Ride by Margaret Peterson Haddix - Free Book Online

around me like I was building a fort.
    Did I really have to work that hard just to prove Mom wrong? (Or . . . right? Which was it?)

Now again
(Really. I’m staying in “now.” I worked too hard to get away from “then.” Why go back?)
    So, anyhow. It’s the start of my senior year, and I’m sitting atop three years of those shiny, hard-earned A’s. I’m number four in my class. I will be number three if Stuart really does drop or flunk AP calc, but I know he’s not going to do either of those things. And I’m sitting at a tableful of my fellow high-ranked seniors, and everyone’s eating and laughing and talking. And even though Stuart still has ketchup on his hand, I’m sure that anyone watching from afar—say, a timid, insecure freshman who doesn’t know anyone yet, the person I used to be—would think we act like we rule the universe. The people I’m with have that confidence built into their marrow, that air of assurance that everything’s going to go their way. It’s like they’re genetically engineered to succeed.
    And I’m good at faking it.
    Clarice taps my arm and asks, “What about you, Becca?”
    â€œHuh?” I say, ever so eloquently.
    Rosa playfully jostles against me.
    â€œEarth to Becca! Earth to Becca! What is wrong with you today?” She appeals to the rest of the table. “She was zoned out the whole time we were in that assembly, too.”
    â€œI think that’s a sign of advanced intelligence,” Oscar says, and I blow him a kiss.
    There is nothing romantic going on between me and Oscar. We just goof around like that all the time.
    â€œFocus, people!” Stuart scolds us. He trains his green eyes on me. Really, Stuart isn’t bad looking—until he opens his mouth. Then he’s so obnoxious you forget what he looks like.
    Unfortunately, Stuart talks a lot.
    â€œThe question on the table, Becca ,” he asks, smirking a little, “is what would you do, if you had to, to go to your dream college? What laws would you break? What moral dictates would you toss aside?”
    And, yes, he really does say “moral dictates.”
    â€œWould you sell your soul?” Clarice asks.
    â€œWould you sleep with Mr. Dingleheimer?” Oscar asks.
    Mr. Dingleheimer is one of the physics teachers, and he weighs four hundred pounds. I’m guessing Mrs. Dingleheimer probably doesn’t even sleep with him.
    â€œWould you pay someone to take the SAT for you if they could guarantee perfect scores?” Rosa asks. “Would you rob a bank? Would you sell state secrets to the Chinese?”
    â€œHey!” Oscar says. His family came to the United States from China, like, three generations ago, but sometimes he acts like it was yesterday.
    â€œWould you hack in to Harvard’s admissions system and sabotage your competition?” Stuart asks.
    I am still a little off today. It isn’t until I hear the word “hack,” that I realize what started this whole guessing game.
    That article about Daddy and what he did, I think. They’re just laughing at it.
    I can feel my legs and my hands start to tremble. I slide my hands under the table and hold on to my knees.
    Fake it fake it fake it fake it . . .
    I put on my sweetest smile.
    â€œI would practically kill myself to get an A in AP chem,” I say. “I would spend four Friday nights in a row taking SAT practice tests. Oh, wait. I already did those things last year! I’m all set!”
    I turn toward Oscar, because I’m sure he’s going to put his hand out for me to high-five—he’s so nerdy and predictable like that. But he’s just sitting there, gazing at me sadly. He shakes his head a little.
    I look back at the rest of the group, and they’re all wearing the same pitying expression.
    Do they know something? I wonder. Did one of them figure something